an original fallout rp established in 2012 | player driven, world building | no word count, no character limit, includes Fallout 1 - 4

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SEE YOU IN THE PAST Thank you for having made Vault-Tec your #1 choice for nuclear preparedness for 4 years running. The experimental phase of our Vault has expired. You are released back into the world to recreate the American dream once again. This vault will now be an archive to the stories that took place within it. Vault-Tec wishes you the best, perhaps we'll see you in the past. Always remember, citizens: War. War never changes.

War... war never changes.
It began with the bombing of the old world. Nuclear fire destroyed much of the American Commonwealth, and what survived did so by adjusting to the wasteland left in war's wake. 200 years after, from west coast expansion, the Will Roger Caravan Company takes up the challenge to establish the Route 66 highway as a caravan trade route. One massive campaign stretching from NCR controlled California to the Brotherhood of Steel bunkers in Chicago, Illinois.

The caravan trail reaches the end of its progress in the state of Missury, at the St. Louis trade stop. A year-long campaign in the mutant city sees the rise and fall of a multitude of different lives and groups. Amid the daily struggle, civilization takes hold over the radioactive ruins below the Gateway to the West. The battle for St. Louis culminates into a massive event 200 years in the making. It all ends in another nuclear detonation to the city.

The ghosts of 2077 play a dirge, a blues song about how war, war never changes.

October-December, 2299

The temperature is dropping, but it's nothing like the blizzard of 2298. Proper shelter at night is becoming non-negotiable. Drifters must either pool their resources to afford a homestead or they must rent from one of the few establishments remaining.

FO66 Member Chat. You must be logged into your accounts to utilize. Spammers will be banned.

COMPANION

It was as black as night but it was morning. In the darkness a procession was moving. Steady and muffled it went rolling over cracked asphalt, scattered debris, past the occasional flash burned skeleton forgotten on the side of the road. Bodies. Bodies moving in the dark. The dull glint of metal and crude paint reflected dimly from the mobile parade. It was a war machine. The only sound beyond the occasional squeak of rotating tires on rusted frames was the heavy rumble of the one engine currently running. It was a deep, sononomous purr that hit you right between the lungs making your ribs vibrate and tingle in response. It was the bus. Some giant prewar hulk rusted beyond any true definition of the color it had once been painted. Couldn't say what it had been in a time long lost; city or some private touring rental. Its life before was a dismal relevancy in comparison to its reconstructed purpose now, however. Certainly none of the prewar masses boarding on and boarding off the old wreck would have ever envisioned its re-envisioned purpose two hundred and then some years later and after their deaths.

Rolling on thick, rubber wheels - several transplanted from other metal carcasses strewn around the city and a couple nearly flat with shoddy patch-work repairs - the reimagined monstrosity advanced slowly and steadily towards the giant arch stooping over the eastward horizon. One lone figure sat hunched over the wide, slightly warped steering wheel. He squinted and strained to peer out the massive front windshield, most of which had been busted inward, creating thousands and thousands of spider webs over the dirty, crusted over shield. It wasn't that difficult to make out the roadway even from the myriad of tiny fissures. The street, this particular street, had been pointedly cleared of any real roadway obstacles days before. What made him stretch and strain his neck was the massive sheets of metal and framework that had been brutally welded to the front of the bus. Metal, aluminum, several car bumpers, and a few car doors had offered up their service to adorn the front of this motorized battering ram. Some terrible, Frankenstein looking bulldozer; something born out of the driver's twisted, atomic world. The bombs might have stopped dropping but the war was still raging on.

The metal behemoth rolled ever onward, flanked on all sides by this deadly silent procession of lesser motorized death. Bike after bike followed alongside the bus, each rider walking beside their mount and rolling them down the street as quiet as the grave. Mounts armored and loaded for war. Some done up not so differently than their larger counter part with the rumbling motor and the one driver craning his neck behind the front pane. When the time would come for engines to roar to life, it would be too late to do anything about it. Too late to do much else but run or die. Run.. Run... and get run down. Have you seen a body after it had been struck dead on when going full speed? Even half speed? It was something you could see smeared for thirty feet along the gravel and asphalt suddenly gone that sick sort of meat red. The black parade rolled on.

The driver of the death bus wasn't the only figure riding the mechanical beast, though he was the only one tucked inside of it. Sat nice and pretty in the front of a thirty-foot cargo load of every sort of explosive that could be found and stuffed inside the rusted hull of their war machine. There was one more figure riding this great metal beast and he sat atop on the roof of his mount like a lord surveying certain victory at hand. If that image strikes the pose of some languid figure dripping over some mottled and cracked prewar lawn chair, then it would be a pretty accurate depiction. Deadbolt lounged limply over his plastic throne, one skinny leg idly bouncing up and down to some inner symphony in his head. He wasn't concerned about what sort of image this may or may not strike. Appearances were the least of his concerns. This wasn't the first mobile assault he led and not the first successful assault he ever put his full attention into. Let the rabble think what they will, he always said. He was the sort of king who didn't strangle the reigns in a mad grip. He preferred to sit back, put the ride on cruise control, and let it roll while he enjoyed the scenic view. You didn't always have to strain at a wheel in order to know where you were headed. Like right now, for instance. As if to prove his point, Deadbolt began to hum fluidly to himself, one hand tapping at the strange box in his arms, sat on top of his soft belly. Something of his own invention. While most of his men had prepared for this day with busying themselves over their rides and their artillery, Deadbolt had spent it in a particular fashion. Several sleepless nights of frustration had yielded their reward - the device he clutched lovingly to his gut. It was a record player he had rigged with parts transfused from some beaten old radio and a couple of loud speakers. Mobile symphony, he had called it. And as he hummed to himself, absently twirling the silent record he had selected round and round, he watched the arch come into clear sight, a darker blotch hunched over a dark skyline.

This was the silent build up. The quiet start to a grand end. So much undulation of triumphant sound to be had before the big finale. From where countless faces stared darkly and noiselessly from the blackness of the early dawn and the slumbering skeletons of buildings, Deadbolt too sat up in his chair a little and watched as the progression ground to a halt. He could hear the instruments tuning up in his head. Eyes expectantly anticipating the first starting gesture of the maestro. Deadbolt unfolded lanky legs and rose from his seat. Lovingly he placed his mobile symphony on the lawn chair. The orchestra was poised to launch into sound at any moment. With grimy fingers the leader of the Sixty-Sixers brought the needle of the record player over the ancient vinyl exquisitely maintained over the centuries and then slowly, over the heavy silence of the Memorial Park, something soft and quiet began to build in volume. A song started playing. Deadbolt nimbly climbed down over the side of the bus, pausing alongside the driver's window when the greasy little raider inside wrinkled his beak-like nose at him.

"Whar's dat sound? Ain't no music I evuh 'eard befo', fer sure."

Deadbolt stared at him for a second longer before dropping to the road. He wasn't even sure he had ever met this raider before. Sure as fuck didn't know his name. Not that it would matter for much longer at any rate. No use crying over spilt guts the saying went.

"Ah, dun be like that! Yeh'll be like the great valkyrie ridin' ter eternal glory with yer crescendo risin' all about yeh all grand and shit," Deadbolt chipped amicably up to the driver, over the sound of the escalating music. "Yeh'll be a vision to behold. A real sight for me sore eye."

He waved off the metal beast and the driver pulled dubiously away from the rest of the staring faces, squashing on the gas and sending the bus out of their sight for a moment as it turned down another street. The music could dimly be heard steadily growing in volume even as the Frankenstein bus was lost from sight. Someone pulled up beside him and Deadbolt heard Jaxx's familiar voice ask a question.

"What the fuck's a Val-ker-y?"

Deadbolt's crooked teeth peeped out at the world from behind lips that twisted upwards at the corners. "Yeh need to read more."

There was a quiet moment from Jaxx and then, "What was the plan? Jump out before the crash?"

The one-eyed raider nodded fractionally. "Jump out before the crash."

Somewhere next to him Jaxx started laughing lowly, "Where the fuck do you find these morons?" and then raised up a hand towards another raider watching them both intently.

The symphony could be heard loud and clear even as the raiders watched the bus reeling at ludicrous speed all the way down Memorial Drive and towards that little piece of shit church squatting beneath that big, deteriorating arch. The engine was roaring at this point like some mechanical super mutant behemoth but even over that the blasting, triumphant orchestra seemed to suddenly spring to life, music pouring out over the emptiness of the Memorial Park to be heard over the death bus's charge. Loud and bold and marvelous, it tore apart the peace of the neighborhood that had held the sleepy downtown in its hold minutes before. Speeding past the larger hulk of the courthouse, the bus broke free from the road and began to tear a mad, unpredictable path towards its final destination. The symphony was just as war-maddened and exuberant as the driver of the scarred bulldozer as he prepared to throw himself free of the suicide charge. That had been the plan, after all. Jump out before the crash. Well... maybe more like that had been his plan alone. The raider that Jaxx had motioned to squinted down the scope attached to his massive anti-material rifle, calmly sighting on the fuzzy little head peeping out the driver-side window for a place to launch himself, and then pulled down on the trigger. The fuzzy head exploded across the windshield a moment before, careening madly on, the bus collided at full speed into the front of the WRCC, exploding itself and all its firepower across the front of that piss-shop trading hub. The cathedral broke wide open like a pinata at a party as a ball of flame and explosions tore the front of the building apart. And as Deadbolt's beloved symphony came to a close, the resounding chorus of countless engines roared to life in response to the end of their flagship's short maiden voyage.

Deadbolt knew what came next. And any pisshead worth two shits did as well. He didn't need to hold their fucking hands and walk them through the waltz. This was what would separate those worth the microfusion cells they were riding dry and those that weren't worth a shallow grave. Jaxx pushed the second motorbike he had been hauling towards Deadbolt and the one-eye raider mounted it with a single swing of a skinny leg and fired up his own engine. He wasn't going to walk them through the steps. He didn't need to strangle the wheel in order to know where they were going. He liked to sit back, set it to cruise control, and admire the scenic route. Deadbolt watched as bike after bike roared off to the scene of destruction where confused and frightened locals were starting to spill out from their holes, whether that be the courthouse, homes, hovels, or escaping from the smoldering trade stop. Stupid, horrified expressions were vaguely made out in the sudden light of all that was burning. The symphony was at its glorious crescendo.

The two Raiders were prone, pressed tightly against the desolate highway street, crawling by using their elbows and knees to propel themselves forward. They were staying low and keeping their noise to a bare minimum, with only the gentle sounds of their knees and boots scrapping across the cracked concrete escaping them. The rumbling of a mechanical beast half way across town easily drowned out any subtle noise the two of them made, making sneaking deeper and deeper into enemy territory all that much easier. While the roar of the engine purred loader and loader, casting echoes across the sleepy downtown district of St. Louis, the two Raiders slithered northeast across the width of a road marked with the number forty. Stealth was everything at the time being, and they both knew it was imperative that they heed the commands they had been given, if they desired to get to the real party to come.

The two Raiders knew they were on point. They were in front of a small band of Sixty-Sixers, situated to be a preemptive strike of their designated part of the Sixty-Sixers plan. While Killa-Watt was a new scab to the Sixty-Sixer clan, the Raider’s age and experience quickly set him apart from the other slabs of meat that comprised of the other low ranking Raiders. His ability to think more tactically than the typical psycho infused berserker Raider, and orchestrate a surprise attack using stealth, gained him the glorious opportunity of sneaking ahead with a handful of others to create an infiltration force to gain more ground and take their enemy by surprise. While calling this task a “glorious opportunity” was definitely sugar coating shit, all the same Killa was up to the task. He desired to make a good impression on the rest of the Sixty-Sixers. He was just a scab to them now. An expendable nobody who meant nothing. That was how Raiding parties went after all, no one gives a damn about those left on the side of the road to rot. There is no respect until you prove that you are respect worthy. The thought pounded in Killa’s mind, dwarfing the uncertainty of the dark thoughts that plagued all soldiers before battle. The two Raiders crept from wrecked car to wrecked car getting closer and closer to their objective, getting closer and closer to the party yet to come.

The roar of the engine got louder, and the two Raiders were able to tuck themselves behind a concrete street divider in sight of their objective. The two raiders unslung their rifles from their backs and checked them over in the light from the Double Barrel Saloon which radiated into the crisp night, still bustling with life within. Cautiously peaking over the barrier that concealed the two of them, Killa could see a positioned guard patrolling back and forth around the perimeter of the Saloon. The fortifications set up to protect the surrounding area were lightly defended, but would undoubtedly be a challenge if fully manned. Killa and the other raiders capable of being stealthier then others had already snuck past a few guards on patrol on their way there, and even had taken out a few too. Raiders weren’t called cutthroats for nothing, but it was common sense that the small splinter group had a limited amount of time before other patrols would notice the other patrols not returning. It was these last couple guards that would be the dividing force between the Sixty-Sixer force and the Double Barrel Saloon, and getting an invading force past these barricades would be a changing factor. It was essential that the least amount of resistance was met. If they just went guns blazing, as typical raiding parties do, then every half-drunk asshole with a gun in the Saloon and any local patrols would quickly create a force that would be more trouble for the Sixty-Sixers. It would be the element of surprise that would make the difference.

“Sowa how we gunna know Killa?” the blond raider whispered.

“We’ll fuckin’ know. Shut ye face, and get ready ta move up.” Killa replied, holding his voice in such a whisper the other Raider could barely hear him.

Through the darkness Killa could see other shadowy figures in the dark move closer and closer to the barricades. The slight movements around the corners of trashed car heaps and concrete street dividers like their own gave the pair of them confidence knowing that they weren’t alone. The distant engine pure evolved into a great roar, the screech of rubber, the clash of metal striking metal, the sound of destruction, of a sweet symphony, of chaos irrupting. It was music in more ways than one. The sound of an orchestra played valiantly across the entire downtown, flooding the ears of everyone and everything, ominous and incessant like the ringing of a burst eardrum. A number of the patrol guards that manned the barricades and patrolled the Saloon began to get jittery in their behavior, the questions back and forth could be faintly heard, in which exposed their concern and even distress of such a monstrous noise. Then it happened. The crack. The bang. The deafening, fear inducing stomp of a 50 caliber cut through all the other sounds as if it was the only sound to be heard. The terrifying sound came from only about two blocks away, but undoubtedly could be heard for a mile or more. Panic instantly irrupted within the guards, but the concern for the gunshot was quickly overlooked.

An explosion erupted not even a mile away, shaking the ground they stood on and piercing their ears. The red flame plumbed high into the sky and could be easily seen over the rooftops. The guards at the barricades around the Saloon turned to watch it rise, illuminating parts of the decrepit Gateway Arch in the distance. That was it. That was a crescendo. Killa moved, quickly followed by the blonde haired Raider and the others. Not a shot was made as they all moved as fast as they could while staying as low as they could. Killa moved up to a guard standing outside of the barricade. His back was turned, but certainly his jaw was dropped in pure shock. Killa moved within a few inches of him, let his R91 drop and catch on the makeshift sling it had been attached to so that his hands were free. Swiftly reaching around the man’s head he clasped his large mitt of a hand tightly over the guard’s mouth to stop him from screaming, and pulled him into his shoulder. The guard was only able to let out a muffled grunt and fumble for his weapon before the blonde Raider that had been with Killa buried the length of a ten inch trench knife into the lower center portion of his sternum. The guard’s heart stopped practically on impact and the man silently went limp in Killa’s arms. A wiry Sixty-Sixer dressed in dirty black rags snuck behind another guard and swiftly cut the guard’s throat. The guard gargled and choked as the gash in his neck sputtered blood in a 180-degree arch about four feet in front of him. This wasn’t as silent however, and as the explosion died down the other guards behind the barrier were able to notice to sputtering and struggling of their bleeding out comrade.

As they tracked the dampened noise of gushing blood and a dying man, the guards turned away from explosion to see the small Raider infiltration force. By this time however the use of the barricades and battlements were useless to them, and Killa and some other Raiders were even using it against them with guns drawn. Killa immediately opened fire with his R91 assault rifle, pumping 5.56mm rounds into the nearest guard and not holding back from being trigger happy. His gunshots were not silenced, but he and the other Raiders had done what was needed. As the bodies of the wastelander guards began to fall, completely taken by the surprise attack, the rest of the Sixty-Six force began to move up from the rear. Soon any scab that could still see straight and tote a pistol would be flooding out of the Saloon and opening fire on the group… but it wouldn’t matter. The party had arrived. The gears turned and the motor of a multi-barrel CZ53 personal minigun began to whirl as two heavy troops of the Sixty-Sixer began to break through the dark night. Killa-Watt bashed off the lock of the gate which separating the group from the Saloon and the rest of the downtown district, pushing open the gates to allow the small force of bloodthirsty Raiders inside.

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Gordon Cooper's night had begun to wind down an hour past. It was a rinse-and-repeat evening as usual for the former Sergeant from California. He closed the bar around this night just as he'd closed down the bar the night before that and the night before that. He could have even gone longer, too - hung around down on the main floor on a bar stool well into morning, but as it happened most of the friends he'd made in town since arriving a month ago were all out and about. That, and the rest of the crowd that lingered on the floor below was sparse. So he'd called it a night. It wasn't as if there weren't going to be plenty of days ahead where he could look forward to spending time among good company until the morning's light. But even in a slightly alcohol addled state, Cooper couldn't seem to catch any sleep this night. He lay awake staring up at the dancing shadows on the ceiling created by a subtle feeling of vertigo that just wouldn't go away. So maybe he had been hitting the bottle hard, even by his standards. He could hardly fault himself for that, not after Union Station What a mess that was. There was no way any of them had walked out of that place without a few scars, but for Cooper, how things turned out hit close to home.

For fuck's sake, why did you have to go and start thinking about that again? The memory of their foray into the local raider den stirred up images in the soldier's head, some recent and others from years back, tore them open like old scar tissue just so he could be reminded of the wounds that lay underneath. He forced his eyes closed to push aside old war wounds but all he saw instead were shadowy faces and voices of the grave. And noise. Loud, clamorous shouting, fiery explosions, gunshots and- His eyes flew open and Cooper shot upright in his bed, back stiff as a board, gasping for a breath that felt as if it had been torn from his throat. All was quiet, save for the dull clamor downstairs in the saloon. His rented room was dark, not even lit by pale moonlight. There's practically no moon tonight at all, he reminded himself. It had been a terrible dream, had to have been, but for the life of him Cooper couldn't piece together where consciousness had faded and the dream began. It was all seamless from where he sat now.

Relief washed over him in that instant, and in the next a rattle of .556 shots nearly had him jumping out of his skin. There might have been alcohol on his breath even then, but Cooper was awake enough and alert enough to know what he'd just heard was no dream. More shots were fired, and joining the cacophony of sound was splintered wood and frightened shouts. Someone was attacking the saloon. Raiders, mutants, it didn't matter one lick - Cooper didn't need any more motivation to get in gear. He rolled off the side of the bed and stayed low half expecting bullets to start splintering through the walls and window. When none did, he could only guess the attackers were focusing on other targets. Maybe armed patrons in the saloon, could be. Scrambling to the footlocker at the base of the bed, Cooper lifted the top and retrieved his marksman carbine along with a few spare mags. Even as he did, he wondered just how much of the noise he'd heard in his nightmares was from his head and not something going down in other parts of town. It was far too early to tell, but the soldier stuck to assuming the worst, which meant there was no time to get into full gear, at least not yet. They had to mount a counter attack fast, and for his part that meant fending off the saloon's assailants.

Slapping a fully loaded magazine into his carbine, he slid two spares across the floor and toward the window which he soon followed, crouch running and sliding home to the right of the window. Cooper peaked up as far as he dared to get a glimpse of their opposition and thanks to the many muzzle flashes he was almost certain he was looking down at raiders. Wasting no more time, he slammed the butt of his carbine stock into the window to shatter it, and in a fluid motion brought the weapon in tight to his shoulder to rise and sight on a piece of sixty sixer scum. He picked the biggest and loudest target he could find and squeezed three times, putting three rounds through the chest of one of the scumbags wielding a multi-barreled minigun.

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It was rare for Aeryn to pull an all nighter like this, yet there she was at the Double Barrel enjoying a drink or two and mulling in her thoughts. Having arrived in St. Louis a little over a week ago, she was still trying to settle in and get used to everything, especially after just gaining a job as a courier. Business was picking up there, but they had a good few bodies there to help out and keep the work going smoothly. And with her memories catching up to her again, she wasn't sure how focused she would be. Then again, that could have been the booze talking, too. She was sure that was why there was still a group of stragglers still hanging out at the saloon, even when the morning was fast approaching. Maybe now was the best time to start heading back to the post office, at least get a few hours of sleep in before work would call. Of before anyone noticed her gone, for that matter.

A few people seemed to have the same idea as the young courier, getting up and starting to head for the entrance. But it was the sound of gunfire that quickly sobered up Aeryn, followed by the screams and shouts of the other saloon patrons. A few of the bodies near the front of the bar had fallen to the ground, blood pouring from their wounds. Aeryn rushed for one of the tables, who someone had quickly thought to turn over and use for cover. What the fuck was going on? Obviously an attack, and the only group she could think to be behind it were the Sixty Sixers, the only well known faction that liked to cause trouble in St. Louis. Of course there could have been other potential troublemakers, but Aeryn seriously doubted that was the case.

Now how long ago had it been since she arrived to St. Louis? At least at the beginning of the month. And she had already dealt with mutants, slavers, and now these sons of bitches, and she was considering St. Louis to be the place to settle down in? Talk about wishful thinking. Only been here for a little over a week and look at all the shit you got yourself into...

Aeryn turned and leaned her back against the turned table, checking her .45 Pistol to make sure it was loaded. She may have acted too calmly in this situation, but then again, it was best to keep your head on your shoulders in a time like this rather than letting yourself go into a fit of panic. That only got yourself killed. She had her hunting rifle strapped to her back, at the ready whenever the situation would call for it. And honestly, she had a feeling it just might this fine morning. She glanced over to the two men she shared the table with, and they seemed to have the same idea she had, checking their own weapons. If they had the means, they might as well fight back. When the two men met her gaze, they offered a short nod, which she returned. Hopefully there were more guns on their side throughout the saloon. Guess she would find out after the gunfire ceased.

Screams filled the place of the gunfire once the raiders had to reload. They sure picked a hell of a time to strike, that was for sure. Still, Aeryn and the two men had moved from their cover to open fire on the group of Sixers outside of the Saloon. Only a few of them went down, and it seemed like another just took their place and returned fire with a spray of bullets. Miniguns. Aeryn cursed and ducked again behind the table, just in time to catch the body of one of the men she was shooting with collapse to the floor. Blood spewed from his eye socket and began to stain the old wooden floor.

"Shit," she cursed, turning around once more to empty her clip toward the group of raiders and hope to whatever higher power that she would hit the asshole with the minigun.

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Sparkplug really didn't want to be involved with this. Not because he was a pussy or something like that, but because, ohey, it's fucking five in the morning. Yeah, know what's a good idea? Making a narcolept go running around St. Louis at some godless hour in the morning, all for the sake of some 'fun' and getting back at these 'locals'. Like he gave a shit. He just wanted some sleep. The pink-haired raider was still coasting between a strange middle ground of wasted-yet-hungover, and it felt something awful. Ruined his mood, but he would have been a prissy drama queen even without the headache. He had his face covered with that typical metal helmet, trying to ignore the constant throb behind his eyes. Least it wasn't bright at this hour, or else he'd be in a real sour mood. The man had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and not complain, but goddamn, the thoughts rolling around in his head were something vicious. Every Sixty-Sixer was hyped for this bullshit, and he had to grit out fake enthusiasm between clenched teeth. Let's just get this over with. Rather then stick around and watch the fireworks out by the Trade Stop, the moody marauder had followed after the second group who were off to this...saloon. Locals built a fucking saloon? The fuck?

Rather then jump into the action, Sparkplug found a nice car to huddle behind. Was freezing outside, and running around in metal scrap with a leather jacket barely did shit. He could hear his teeth chatter as he crouched down, and the man clapped his hands together and gave them a good rub to keep them warm. There were a few other raiders that seemed to share his idea, quietly huddled and waiting on the assault. Wasn't trashing the Trade Stop good enough? He wanted to get back to Union Station where he could huddle around a fire and sleep until it was an acceptable hour to be awake. “Fucking hell.” Was all he hissed out when gunfire ripped through the air. “Here we go.”Just get it over with. Shoot fast, run fast, and this'll all be over.

He had lifted up his assault rifle, balancing it on the hood of the car, and let out a roar of bullets through the front door of the establishment. A little wake-up call for any poor drunk sods who had lingered inside. With that done, he tore the gun back and got ready to switch magazines. There were people that jumped at the chance to breach inside, and they were quick to approach...but thankfully, none were stupid enough to go charging inside....yet. The element of surprise was gone, but they'd easily outnumber some drunks any day.

..and then the locals started shooting back. There had been a crack that he had recognized as a hunting rifle. “Fuckin'-” There was a loud cling and Sparkplug found himself on his ass, hand instantly shooting up to his head. He'd been shot...but the bullet had ricocheted off the side of his helmet. Must have been a big round, because it carved a groove straight through the side of it. After that, the only sound was the roar of minigun fire. It didn't ease the headache, and it sure as hell didn't ease the ringing in his ears from having a round almost splatter his brains everywhere. Lucky to be alive, or some shit like that.

Sparkplug heaved his assault rifle back over the hood of the car, and this time, shot a magazine worth of rounds towards the direction of the asshole with a hunting rifle.

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The sound of the erupting fireworks was the signal of the attack beginning, shortly followed with crack of gunfire, riding off from Washington Avenue onto Memorial Drive, the scene was one to behold, despite the plan being sounding ridiculous, it actually worked, the locals hadn't the faintest idea of what hit them, most of them only reacted instinctively. Run.

Run.

Deadbolt seemed to already have that idea in mind. Myles, along with a group of 5 others rode in, were directed to cutting off a portion of settlers who had somehow escaped the Cathedral, and were making high tail towards the Clinic. Myles stopped on his bike, using the kickstand to keep the bike upright as he stepped off, the entrails of his duster swept off the seat behind him as he reached for his Combat Shotgun, at first the locals were unaware, despite the fireball, the light only showed to them a few silhouettes, as did they to Myles. Shadows in the night. Myles lifted his shotgun before he let off the first shell into the nearest target, sent to a sudden stop on the dirt.

He continued firing, as some stopped and went to turn around, some tried to make distance and weave around the group of raiders that had cut them short of their plan b for shelter and safety. Myles took down those in distance, whilst the group fanned out to take down the stragglers. Myles looked on at one person who despite oncoming attack had dipped through the raiders, Myles muttered a curse before he headed back to his bike, shotgun swinging from his hip as he fired a couple of rounds in hopes of reaching it's targets, but they only scuffed up the dirt that the person wasn't already kicking up behind them.

Myles placed his shotgun onto the seat of the bike, reaching for the back of the bike where Myles had strapped his Railway Rifle into place, he lifted it out, kneeling and notching the heavy steam pressure barrel onto the seat for a steadier aim, he gave it a couple of moments to trace the aim before he fired, the steam released, a long black spike shooting from it's container as within half a second the target stumbled to the floor. The night's light consumed the target from view, Myles took it as a kill. He turned back to the target of the rest of St Louis, placing a leg over the bike as he sat back down, revving the engine before he continued down Memorial Drive. Plenty of more stragglers where that came from.

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Flint looked at the morning assault as business. The throw of a gauntlet to the dirt of a frontier that had been, until now, relatively uncontested. Downtown was a warren uprooted, all the prey animals left to scatter against a one sided barrage. He cruised down an empty street looking for something in particular, reverberating booms and pops of gun fire at his back. Flints real beast was left at Union Station, the lightweight rust bucket he rode through the inky morning wasn't good for salvage or a decent explosion. There was a certain kind of reckless wisdom one attained from straddling a metal machine. Anyone worth a shit looked at their bike like a savage beast that tore up the highway, fuck wholesome safety and sleek finesse, life was too short for that. So the Dirt bike had remained in a corner of the chop shop den, unused, a discarded blueprint for the dual purpose bikes that shred across the jagged plains. Most agreed it should go out with some dignity, and what better night then now.

He was in high spirit, caught in an alert daze where the goal was clear but the atmosphere was fools paradise. Like being tipsy and not giving two fucks if he fell away and teared his face off on the road like a food grater. Nocturnal hours were peaceful, only the dead walked the streets. Flint sung a song he didn't know the name of, a song he only knew a few words to. It was sometimes sung to him by an elusive broad, her eyes only appeared like the face of a black owl in the night.

""He had a hopped-up 'cicle that took off like a gun. That fool was the terror of highway 101... something something....Mary Lou" Flint shouted, terribly off tune with the screech of the dirt bike as backing vocals.

He halted singing and broke a distance from a building, bullets tore at both sides as settler and mangy Sixer ducked and took pot shots. The Saloon, an unsurprising pocket of resistance. A pack of Sixers reluctantly edged for the closed entrance and some split off towards the back entrance. Flint wheeled the rust bucket in line with the liver colored interior of the saloon mouth and let out a sharp whistle.

"Move your shit aside girls and boys, the battering ram has arrived!"

He revved the engine to capacity, energy cells draining of a last drip of nuclear fuel. The bike relinquished, roaring down the runaway like a bolt of dirty lightning. Steering the bike straight, Flint stood and sprung off the foot pegs, his feet stumbling on solid ground before bearings were gathered and he, with a group of others sprinted behind the wild unmanned vehicle. The bike torpedoed up the raised landing, splintering the saloon doors apart. A hot tire fractured an ugly mug of a face as the bike careened and flipped sideways, knocking several people down before it upturned over the counter and reduced the beverage display to a thousand smithereens. Sixers flooded in and kicked up tables to use as shields, rushing the resistance. Flint eased back and let the brawny melee inclined fuckers into the frey with crowbars and machetes. He dodged the razor teeth of a broken bottle and returned fire with a fist to the wielders fat nose. So fat, Flint decided to bring the bloodied nose down upon the counter edge just in case it wasn't broken the first time.

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Diamond waited a little ways back from the main group, sitting on her bike, one foot on the ground and one on the pegs, watching as the chaos unfolded before her. She couldn’t see everything- the visibility in the city was shit at the best of times, and the big billowing clouds of smoke from that wreck of a cathedral weren’t helping any- but she could see most of what was going down. She reached down and unbuckled one of her saddlebags, and fumbled around in it until her fingers closed around the stem of an inhaler.

Party like this needs party favors. She thought, pressing the mouthpiece to her lips and breathing deeply, emptying the little canister of all it held. She’d always been a lightweight, and so the couple of spares she had tucked in her saddlebags wouldn’t be needed- just from the one inhaler, she could feel herself lightening up. It was like the early morning fog just evaporated, replaced with sharp-sweet clarity. It was time to ride.

She took her helmet from where it hung between the handlebars and pulled it on, and slapped the electric start on her bike. She took care of her shit. All her electronics still worked. Nunna that kickstart bullshit that most of the scrubs were stuck with. The bike roared to life at the first touch of the button, snarling underneath her like the big angry beast that it was, and she kicked it into gear, centering the bike and roaring off down the street.

So far, most of the fighting hadn’t reached this far down the street. Everything was centered a little further down, so she had plenty of time to eye up targets as she roared down toward the excitement. Her eyes settled on a pair of do-gooders, creeping up behind the crew that were assaulting the Saloon. A few more minutes, and the little shits would have the flanks on some of her boys. ”Oh, fuck no ya don’t you fucking garbage.” Diamond growled- the sound was mostly lost to the roar of her bike- and pulled her revolver from it’s holster on her bike’s tank.

The chaos around them must’ve deafened them to the sound of her bike, because by the time the pair of local asswipes noticed her, she was practically on top of them. The man that was closest to her turned to face her, an SMG cradled in his hands, and aimed at her. But the filthy amateur hesitated a moment too long, and Diamond was damn near in arms’ reach when she pointed her revolver at his head and squeezed the trigger, pulping his skull and sending him spinning to the ground, his SMG sending rounds uselessly up into the air over her head.

His partner, the woman, never had a chance. She had just enough time to scream some anguished bullshit about her man dying before Diamond rammed her with her motorcyle, knocking her down- Diamond was pretty sure she heard bones break when the front fork and it’s wheel made contact- and pinning her beneath the bike, dragging her body along underneath it for a few yards until she came to a stop. Diamond looked down at the woman, who was still screeching and twitching a little, and shook her head.

”Look both ways before ya cross tha street, dumbass.” She said, borrowing a line from a children’s book back at the station, before she leaned down to spend another slug into the woman’s skull, putting stop to her damned shrieking and squirming. She had to rock the bike back and forth a little bit to get the woman’s broken corpse unstuck from beneath it, but it wasn’t too much of a hassle, and so she was turned around and ready to go again just in time to watch Flint and a handful of others pull off a spectacular breach on the Saloon. Part of her was itching to join in, but the rest of her was reminded of the flanking maneuver she’d just gunned down.

No, she would stay on patrol, and do her best to make sure the local asswipes didn’t manage any joke of a counterattack. She replaced the two spent slugs in her revolver and tucked it back into it’s holster, and gunned the throttle once more, roaring in a long circuit around the battle zone, keeping her eyes open for places to make herself useful.

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Nothing brought Cuddle’s blood to a boil quite like skipping a workout. The brute had been sleeping just fine when he had been woken up by his comrades. Early mornings weren’t a concern for him, one needed to get up early if they wanted to maintain peak physical perfection, such as his own. However, being denied the chance to lift heavy things got him in a punching mood, and he was more than happy to take it out on the twerp who woke him up. His eyes opened, he found his target, and his fist flew.

An hour or so had passed and the hulking man was on his bike, armor strapped on tightly and hair braided tightly. His hands gripped the handles tightly as he waited silently along with his… well he wouldn’t call them friends. Seven years amongst them and the only person he had a shred of respect for was that maniac they all followed. He adjusted the strap of his helmet, making sure it was nice and tight. This was the only defence he had between himself and some thin skinned, wuss ass local.

As the bus screamed off into the distance and the music faded, Cuddles made sure he could easily pull his hammer off his back single handedly. His gun hung on his hip, locked and loaded if he needed it. The weak ones on both sides loved hiding behind their little toys and shooting off into the distance. Cuddles hated it. Killing a person meant so much more, and felt much grander if you were mere inches from them when the light left their eyes. He took a deep breath and waited for the signal.

With a mighty boom the cathedral was blown open, and Cuddle slammed his bike into action. He wasn’t going to wait a fucking second longer for his… he really needed a name for them, associates? Yeah associates. He wasn’t going to wait for them to charge, there was fun to be had, and he would have as much as he could take. Rubber treads dug into the earth and dragged him along the pavement as he all but threw himself towards the target and the morons protecting it. He pulled his hammer from his back and began to swerve, hoping to make it harder to aim at him as he aimed for a few confused stragglers off to one side.

“‘Ope yer made yer peace, fugger!” He bellowed over the roar of his engine as he closed down on a group of three. He pulled his hammer back, the muscles in his arms rolling around each other like trucks in a parking lot as he swung the hammer down onto some poor sod’s head. Cuddles yanked the hammer free and turned the bike sharply, reving and then ramming into the second strangler. ”Oops, did ah nudge ye?” He chuckled as his bike rolled over the man.

He looked back to the final opponent, and watched as the man fired a round from his pistol. The slugg flew past Cuddles, missing due to the man’s trembling. Cuddles rolled up slowly to the would be shooter and slammed his fist into his stomach. ”Lad, if yer no’ goin’ ter hit meh, don bother wasten yer ammo.” He said as the man fell, clutching his stomach. Cuddles bounced his hammer in his hands, then slammed it repeatedly into the prone man, until his head was but a bloody, pulpy mess. He chuckled, then looked around, wondering how the others were handling themselves.

It was go time and the motor-fiends were hauling death on wheels through the roadways. The streets had come alive with swarms of bodies after the fireworks rocked the first building under attack. They ran and danced and the few that were coherent enough to pull themselves quickly together began a desperate retaliation. Shot were going off everywhere now. The scream of engines drowned out the screams of victims except for the very loudest screamers in the crowd. There were countless whoops and hollers and shouts of exhalation. The predawn darkness was lighting up with gold and red - but the sun hadn't risen yet. Molotovs were sailing through the sky, tossed at the windows and the roof of the courthouse and any other structure that looked inhabited. The buildings were catching flame and the glow was giving everything over Downtown an early dawn. Jaxx rode past a group of locals that had the mind to take defensive assault at a group of raiders trying to pry open boarded up windows to hurl more flaming liquor inside. Jaxx's motor-beast growled to a slow and the pyromaniac detached a grenade from the satchel around his chest. He popped a pin, and still riding his previous momentum from the bike's charge, hurled the fist-sized egg at the group. He saw their faces for a bright instant before he was veering off to the explosive blast of his gift.

"YEAH! YEAH! FUCK YEAH!" he hollered wildly into the wind whipping across his face and through his hair, sending the strands billowing out like a flag anchored to his skull. His wrist dropped and his boots stomped and he was tearing off like a bat from hell.

It was like a dream. It was the most beautiful thing Jaxx had seen since the day he and his sister and their uncle joined up with the two brothers waving a bullet-torn highway placard. The day all three of them, his family, went riding out on newly acquired motor-steeds to face down a common enemy from the west. Real freedom. Open freedom. Utter disregard for everything. It was momentous and Jaxx hadn't realized how much it sang in his soul until faced with the very same sensation once again. The raider hollered and bayed, drawing out Rock n' Rolla and letting fly a stream of lead-song. The Sixty-Sixers were bigger, better equipped, and more experienced now than they had been in those first tentative years. And while neither his sister nor his uncle were around any longer to see their accomplishments this day, he felt them both in the undulation of war's cacophony all around him. Here was the common enemy once again. Here was the new threat to freedom and a truly open highway. This was fences and borders and lawmen and regulations. Here was the death of a western dream in the shapes of bodies breaking beneath tires and faces lighting up under gunfire. Jaxx howled and made a swift left.

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Aeryn had to duck back down as more gunfire riddled through the Saloon. She shut her eyes tight, cursing again and again. Her heart was pounding against her chest, hands shaking as she tried to calm herself down and keep her head on straight. More people within the Saloon were armed and helping hold up the fight, but not as much as she hoped. More people fell in a pool of their own blood, others were cowering under tables and behind the Saloon's counter. She swallowed hard once the rain of bullets ceased and she took in a deep breath.

"Move your shit aside girls and boys, the battering ram has arrived!"

"Battering ram?" she asked herself, leaning out a moment to have a look.

Next thing she knew, a bike rammed through the doors of the Saloon and crashed over the counter and into the display of alcohol with a loud crash of glass and booze flying everywhere. Aeryn flinched from the crash, gripping her hunting rifle. The door was gone, now they were free to rush in. Her gaze shot toward the back entrance of the Saloon, wondering if she could slip out that way and make her getaway. But then the idea of the Saloon being surrounded shot that idea down instantly. Still, maybe they could get up to the second level, bottleneck the raiders that way and take them out one by one as they climbed the stairs.

She wanted to turn and tell the others fighting in the Saloon to make for the stairs, but they were too focused on keeping the raiders at the door at bay. Aeryn wasn't keen on waiting around much longer, her gaze turning back toward the hallway. "Oh fuck it," she muttered, pulling herself up and running straight for the doorway. A few bullets blew past her, one of them past her ear, but she managed to barely evade them once she rounded the corner.

Aeryn bolted up the steps. Wood splintered from near her left foot, the loud bang of a gun sounding soon behind her. She let out a shocked cry, skipping a few steps as she scrambled to the top. Aeryn ran toward one of the empty rooms, busting the door open as she leaped over the bed and ducked down behind it for cover. She hoped someone had spotted her run and would follow her stead to help her bottleneck the raiders down below. Otherwise if they got wiped out on the lower level, she would be one hell of a sitting duck.

Right now, though, her problem was with two raiders ascending the steps after her.

The hunting rifle went off, the first raider's brains splattering against the wall as his body slumped down the steps. Another crash and a loud curse made Aeryn assume the body made the second raider trip back down the steps. But she was already pulling the bolt back, resting the rifle over the bed to take aim again at the steps. Who was next?

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"An' who did this city belong ta befoe' all the freeloaders come a'callin'? How long have our people called this highway home? Not a one of 'em coulda dreamed a dream so wild - that one day so many would call so much of the 66 home! Who came together, eh?" the megaphone bellowed in question. Any within distance to answer hollered back a triumphant "SIXTY-SIX!""Who fought an' died to keep the ol' Six alive, eh?" asked again. "SIXTY-SIX!""Who's name an' life rides the ol' girl as time immemorial? Who wears her mark? Who rides for the legacy of her name?""SIXTY-SIX!"

Deadbolt lowered the megaphone and grinned, a smile to split his one-eyed face from ear to ear, crooked teeth naked and exposed. It was utter destruction in Downtown, like surround sound the symphony of explosions, gunfire, and cries of conflict reverberated from every direction. He hadn't seen anything this magnificent since The Broken Horns. He raised the megaphone again and bellowed, "Yer goddamn right, mates. Now clear out this trash! This is our highway!"

More wild hooping and hollering. The megaphone fell back to his side and Deadbolt hopped down from where he'd been standing atop the seat of his bike. The two Sixers holding it steady, beaming and grinning like riled wolves, backed away from their leader and were soon tearing off on their own rides in tight patrol around the one-eyed man. Rear guard. They'd keep close by. Deadbolt waited until he was sure that he'd fallen from the forefront of the Sixers' thoughts, second to the exhilarating thrill of the attack, before he let that face-splitting grin slide away. He glowered across to the smoking wreck of the WRCC and the old courthouse.

This was what he'd long-ago warned Diesel about. This was the bloody, fucking still-born of his brother's fornication with people outside of the road gang. If he'd had brought what he still had of Diesel with him out here to the streets, he'd have lifted his brother up to show him the sight. See, boyo? I tolded you. But he hadn't, and so he stood watching the pre-dawn dark explode in reds and yellows and flashes of white by himself, tracking the devastation. And it wasn't all devastation solely upon Downtown. Deadbolt knew that the locals were also armed, and that what rode back to Union Station after the assault wouldn't be the same sized force that first rode out. Wounds and infection and so-forth would cut away at more of their number as the next few days progressed. He'd be losing some of his best, dangerous riders tonight - this morning.

Deadbolt spat. What had first come together to form the Sixty-Sixer band had been nothing more than divided packs of raiders living and dying upon the broken asphalt of old Route 66. After they'd taken the highway as one solid nation of highwaymen, others had flocked under their roadway banner. These were varied peoples from all manner of background and lifestyle, not all of them were as lethal as the first who founded the Sixty-Six. Many could look upon those first bands and sneer with contempt, but Deadbolt was nothing if not fucking proud of what he and his kind had accomplished on a roadway like the one their kind lived and died over. When they'd grown enough, made something lasting of their cause, he and his brother and their former raider tribes had moved to the Union Station of St. Louis where they'd set their mind to forming a base of operation. They'd never had one before, and Diesel was nothing if not adamant about taking their brethren with them. It had proved invaluable to taking the train depot - for it had been another battle just to secure territory in the radioactive, mutant-infested city. But take it they had, and here they were now, years after the fact.

What brought the darkness to Deadbolt's face wasn't reminiscing about the Sixers' bloody conquest and history, but rather the loss of those still living who had once rode through it. What he'd be losing were some of the last true raiders of the old raider packs. There were many beneath the Sixty-Six sign who felt that Deadbolt and his posse at Union Station were dangerous, blood-thirsty, maybe even bat-shit insane, but one thing they still knew was that those very same riders at Union Station were the best of the battle roadies - and they kept the highway free, through whatever means. Deadbolt glowered and wondered at how many would still be available to fight for open road after this mess - if this attack could finally dislodge the damned leeches out of the city, of course - and how many he'd still have when a reaction came. For every action, there is always an equal reaction, he'd once been read, and his mind drifted over a giant, muddy river to the banks of Illinois and beyond, where other motor vehicles prowled roadways under a very different banner and cause.

"Sons a'bitches," the leader of the highwaymen muttered, and wondered at how many he'd have available for the inevitable reaction. But for the meanwhile... he had blood-thirsty roadies to keep focused on the task at hand -- "Give 'em hell, boyos!" the megaphone screamed again. "For the Sixty-Six!"

It had turned into everything Jaxx had hoped for in a first strike against the settlers. Their muddy little homes along the muddy river, digging and living in the muck to try and make anything come of it. It made Jaxx sick. Dirt stained hands and dirt stained knees - he’d seen the miserable beginnings of agriculture in the hunched backs of day laborers. It was nauseating. Any man willing to eek out a living on bended knee was little better off than the ones on bended knees who died on the business end of his assault rifle, groveling for their lives. Groveling for mercy or groveling for crops, it was fucking embarrassing as far as Jaxx was concerned. Everything the Sixers were doing here today, it was the right thing to do. The moto-raiders had been far too lax in their control over the settlers and caravans. Deadbolt had been right all along. It had brought nothing but fences and squatters taking up farmsteads and dividing up the road and claiming rights to land with laws and anti-Sixer mentality. Without a doubt, this was what should have been done months ago.

Nearly all of downtown was completely alight, the rattle and pop of gunfire ebbing back bit by bit like a storm passing over. Either the Sixers were finding fewer and fewer settlers to gun down, had killed most of them by now, or the little shits had scattered to holes to shiver and hide. Either way, fuck ‘em. The raider spat off the side of his bike. He was damn certain they hadn’t been lucky enough to get them all, but they’d gotten plenty. And the damage done, well, it had been done. If the rumors about the notably changing weather were correct in their foreboding, then the storm blowing madly to St. Louis would probably take care of the remainder. Caught outside in a mad midwestern storm with inadequate shelter, if shelter at all was even left, the elements would seize the rest of the trash. And if what Deadbolt foretold of a kind of “retaliation” that the Sixers might not be able to sneer down their handlebars at was something to really consider… well shit, maybe they’d have time to prep for it during the downtime of a major storm.

From his vantage point out along the Memorial Drive, Jaxx could see the rallying forces of the Sixty-Sixers starting to pack it in. Either out of ammo, out of molotovs, or just out of targets, the moto-raiders were slowing pulling back towards the Ruins. Jaxx could see Deadbolt, surrounded by his rear-guard, surveying the destruction at hand. Cracker Jaxx watched their defacto leader for a moment before eventually even the one-eyed motorist turned his own bike around, banner of the 66 waving regally from a stop sign mounted to his ride, and rode off with his crew in the direction of Union Station.

Jaxx spat again, a thick glob landing into a growing pool of blood beside his tire, not even bothering to check whether the woman he’d ploughed down was choking on her own fluids still or had finally died, and followed in pursuit of the motorcade headed back into the Ruins.

SEE YOU IN THE PAST Thank you for making Vault-Tec your #1 choice for nuclear preparedness for 4 years running. This vault is expired and all its dwellers have been released back into the American Commonewealth, it is now an archive to past events. Perhaps we'll find you further back and see you in the year 2077.